


Comfort and Joy

by TerrusDacktellus



Series: Lost Continent [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Just Roll With It, but I can't be bothered tagging all the platonic ones, holiday schmoop, it's Christmas, more tortured angsty conversations bcs that's mah jam, so everyone is all lovey dovey, there are more relationships involved than just spuffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerrusDacktellus/pseuds/TerrusDacktellus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scooby Christmas is interrupted when what Buffy thought would be the perfect present drags up some very traumatic memories for Spike, leading to yet another agonisingly emotional conversation. The extremely alcoholic eggnog and the berries of deathly embarrassment are not helping matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you think it was a mistake letting Andrew do the decorating?”

Dawn paused on her way to the kitchen, a bottle of booze in each hand. Looked like the ‘nog was going to pack one hell of a punch this year. 

“Are you nuts?” she replied, gesturing at the beautifully festooned tree in the corner with a bottle of rum. “The place looks amazing! Mom couldn’t have done a better job.”

High praise indeed. Buffy sighed, taking in the matching stockings - had Andrew hand embroidered their names? She wouldn’t put it past him - the tasteful sprays of fake foliage adorning the walls and the elegant, impressively symmetrical Christmas tree. He’d even put up Chanukah decorations too in deference to Willow. There was no denying that the place looked amazing, but really, she thought, casting a wary eye over her nemesis hanging over the door, was the mistletoe absolutely necessary? Dawn followed her gaze and shrugged.

“So? It’s Christmassy. Get over it, Buff.” 

“Dawn, did you get the rum or not, it has to be two kinds because otherwise - oh, hi Buffy.” Andrew’s perpetual babbling trailed off when he saw her. “So, you like the decorations?” he asked a little shyly and Buffy reluctantly gave up on her plan to swiftly yank down the offending plant the second she was left alone. He’d definitely notice and he’d definitely be crushed if she didn’t appreciate all his hard work. 

“Oh, I love it,” she said, plastering a smile on her face and Andrew’s genuine, gleeful response warmed her heart. Oh screw it. How bad could a little mistletoe be? The guys probably wouldn’t even notice. Anything for the Christmas cheer. She waited in the living room while Dawn let Andrew lead her back into the kitchen on an important eggnog mission and they’d hardly left when the door rattled under the heavy thumping of a fist. Show time. 

“Season’s greetings, fair Slayer!” proclaimed Xander melodramatically when she opened the door for him. He had a stack of brightly coloured, badly wrapped parcels in one arm and he flung the other around her neck and dragged her against his chest for an enthusiastic hug. 

“Oh, would ya look at that!” he said, glancing upwards. “Festive!” And he planted a big noisy, kiss on her cheek. Usually Buffy liked giddy, affectionate Xander. God knows, she’d seen little enough of him since that whole mess with Dawn and well, before that, Renée and Anya and actually, he was so rarely like that bouncy, noisy kid who’d quipped his way through high school, that honestly, seeing him like this was a real treat. Or it would have been if he hadn’t just highlighted the mistletoe like a goddamn flashing neon sign. Wonderful, thanks Xan. 

“Happy Christmas to you too,” she said, opting to play it cool. “Have you guys been drinking already?”

“Undead Santa here may or may not have talked me into an early morning yuletide tipple,” he said, jerking his head to direct Buffy’s gaze behind him. She peered around him to see Spike standing in the hall with a paper bag in his hands, watching Xander with an amused expression that very nearly bordered on affectionate. Trippy. 

Xander hefted his armful of presents. “Where should I put these?” he asked and Buffy stepped aside to point at the tree. He walked on in, exclaiming at the decorations and she had to laugh. Tipsy Xander was cute. She looked back and Spike was hovering in the door way, waiting for her to move so he could step inside. She stepped left just as he stepped left and then they both corrected right, then left again and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry at the stupid awkwardness of it all, until he finally just grabbed her shoulder and gently steered her out of his way. 

He stepped over the threshold and she couldn’t help herself. She glanced up, so quickly that if she’d been lucky he might not have noticed it, but apparently even Spike 2.0, Officially Over Buffy Summers edition, was hyper aware of her every movement and his eyes followed hers, lighting on the berries of deathly embarrassment swinging over her head. 

“Festive,” he said quietly, echoing Xander. They were alone in the living room, noisy greetings filtering in from the kitchen, his hand still gripping her shoulder and his eyes shadowed and shuttered. For a heart stopping second, Buffy thought he really was about to kiss her. Then he pulled his hand away sharply and held up the paper bag, clearing his throat. 

“Uh, merry Christmas, Slayer.” He gave her a smile that somehow managed to be as warm as it was awkward. There was a beat, and then she remembered herself and took the bag. 

“All for me?” she joked weakly and he laughed. 

“Not hardly,” he said and gave her a playful dig on the arm before turning to receive Dawn’s enthusiastic season’s greetings. Buffy watched her hug him with the stupidest stab of jealousy - if she’d wanted a hug, she should have just gone for it instead of standing there like an idiot, hoping he’d make a pass at her. God, this was getting ridiculous. 

***

“And that’s it for tiny, Jewish Santa,” Willow proclaimed with a grandiose bow. They’d all had a little bit too much of the eggnog at this stage, (Andrew had even made an alcohol free version for Giles) but what with the bird was in the oven, filling the apartment with its warm, golden scent, the piles of unwrapped presents surrounding them and the crumpled paper littering the floor like multicoloured snow, Buffy was feeling far too much goodwill towards all mankind to worry about being tipsy. Or maybe the goodwill was because she was tipsy. 

There was a round of ‘thank you's in response to the end of Willow’s gift giving and Buffy glanced down at the growing stack of gifts beside her, feeling a lump in her throat. This was probably the nicest Christmas she’d had since before her mom died and it wasn’t just the presents, lovely and all as they were. It was the overwhelming sense of family, that everyone that she needed in the whole world was right here. Speaking of which … 

Spike unfolded himself from the chair he’d been draped over, one leg dangling carelessly over the armrest, because while a punk ass vampire might deign to join in cosy holiday celebrations with his ex-something’s substitute family, sitting in a way which did not instantly draw all attention to his crotch was clearly a bridge too far. _Or maybe I’m the only dirty pervert staring,_ Buffy realised.

“Right then,” he announced, setting his beer on the floor. “Guess it’s my turn to play Saint Nic.” 

He leaned backwards to reach the paper bag full of presents that she’d left under the tree, exposing a sliver of white stomach with a fine line of dark hair. Who was that guy who’d conditioned his dog with a bell? Pavlova? Or was that a cake? Whatever. Spike’s abs, cake, it was all the same, she was still drooling. Buffy sighed. 

“Here we go,” said Spike, grabbing the bag and snapping from stretching to sitting in a lithe, elastic movement - that was just unfair. He started to pull presents out, all wrapped surprisingly neatly in navy and gold paper and passing them around the circle - he’d got them all something, even Giles and Buffy saw the surprise on his face as he caught the package Spike tossed him. They weren’t at each other’s throats these days but they hadn’t exactly hit the Christkindl buddies stage either, or so Buffy would have thought. She watched in fascination as Giles opened a DVD box set of some TV show she’d never heard of, his eyes growing very large and round behind his glasses. 

“I … this is very thoughtful of you, Spike,” he said haltingly and Spike ducked his head almost bashfully. 

“Well, what’s an English childhood without Dad’s Army, yeah?” he mumbled. Xander punched him in the arm and declared that he was going to kick his ass in whatever video game Spike had given him - “Right, in your dreams, Harris. Ever heard of vampire reflexes? You’re fucked, mate.” - Dawn was already putting on her new earrings, Willow was smoothing her fingers over the spine of a really beautiful notebook and Andrew appeared to be misting up over some comic book action figure. 

“It’s even mint in box,” he said in a hushed, awed tone and advanced on Spike, who tried unsuccessfully to fend off his hug before giving in and patting him awkwardly on the back. Buffy was relatively certain that his grimace was entirely for show. 

“Ain’t ya gonna open that, Slayer?” he asked once he’d managed to disentangle himself from Andrew’s fervent embrace. Buffy looked down at the parcel he’d thrown her, soft in her hands beneath the crispness of the paper. She’d nearly forgotten about it, she’d been so entranced by watching him fit neatly into her family. It was as though he’d always been there, making her friends laugh and giving her the strange urge to cry, although whether it was out of joy for this strange, impossible friendship they’d built for themselves, pride for how far he’d come or grief for the could-have-beens, she wasn’t sure. 

“Oh yeah,” she said, shaking her head and trying to snap herself out of it. “Yup, I’m all with the openage.” 

She peeled back the tape carefully, regretting her decision to watch everyone else do their opening first: now all eyes were on her and whatever was in there felt like clothes and oh God, what if he’d bought her some awful sweater like her dad always did when he’d had no idea what she’d actually like and she’d have to smile and pretend to - oh boy. She caught the first glimpse of blue, blue material peeping out from under the wrapping and she shredded the rest of the paper like confetti, shaking out folds of gorgeous, sapphire chiffon. It was The Dress. Not just any dress, _The Dress,_ the same one she’d sighed over that time they’d gone shopping for glasses. Was it just a coincidence that he’d figured out what to get her the same day she’d thought of the perfect present for him? 

“Spike,” she said faintly, standing up to shake it out and press it against her body, like she could somehow phase into it without actually having to change. The others were admiring at it, Willow and Dawn making proclamations of jealousy and the guys doing their ‘as superfluous pieces of fabric go, that is a particularly nice one’ thing but Buffy was experiencing something akin to tunnel vision. She only had eyes for Spike.

“You like it then?” He was smirking, pleased with himself but self conscious at the same time, his shoulders slightly hunching against his insecurity. 

“Do I - Spike, how -” She trailed off, unsure as to what she actually wanted to ask. How did you know I wanted this dress so much it hurt? Well, he’d been there when she’d tried it on but at the time, she’d had the impression that he was bored and more than a little irritated with her. How did you even manage to find it again when you spent the whole afternoon bitching and ignoring me? How did you afford this? Is this really the kind of gift enemies-with-benefits turned platonic slaying partners give each other? 

“Thank you,” she settled on finally, mercifully keeping the quiver out of her voice. “Of course I like it, I mean, I love it.”

He shrugged and looked away but not before Buffy saw a strange welter of emotions flash across his face, pleasure, embarrassment and something that looked a lot like regret. She wished that she could just throw her arms around him like Andrew had and cling until it wasn’t awkward anymore, but even on Christmas, that was probably too much to wish for. 

“I’m just going to change into this,” she said and headed quickly into her room. 

***

She looked better than a supermodel: she looked like a freaking princess. Buffy twisted and turned in front of the mirror, doing the traditional squeezing together of boobs and holding in of stomach and trying to convince herself that the tightness in her throat was purely brought on by the eggnog. Jeez, how much rum had Andrew actually used? It wasn’t like her to get so emotional over a dress, no matter how much it enhanced her admittedly meagre cleavage. But of course, she wasn’t getting choked up over the gift so much as the gift giver. 

_Why Spike, I had no idea you cared._

Okay, no, that was stupid. She knew he cared. He’d stuck around, hadn’t he? He was there for her when she needed him, giving her supportive pep talks - when he was in the right mood, Spike was the absolute king of pep talks - sparring with her and fighting at her back like always, but he’d stopped loving her and she’d felt the loss, bitter and stinging. Buffy stepped back from the mirror so as to appreciate the dress in its entirety, admiring the way it hugged her waist like a lover’s hands and felt the fear that had gripped her unacknowledged for over a month drain away. So maybe she wasn’t the absolute centre of Spike’s world anymore but she was still special to him, the dress was undeniable, incontrovertible proof of that. You didn’t give a present like this to someone who was just a friend. Her hands knotted suddenly into fists, wrinkling her skirt and she forced herself to unclench them. You just didn’t. 

***

The skirt swished around her legs as she walked back out into the living room, a glorious whispering rhythm. _He cares, he cares, he cares, I look freaking_ fantastic, _he cares._ Xander and Dawn wolf whistled then broke into giggles as she sashayed past and she threw them a mock supermodel pose before collapsing inelegantly into her chair. She sought out Spike’s face automatically and he winked at her when she caught his eye. 

“Gorgeous,” he mouthed and something warm fluttered in her chest. 

“Well, if that’s it for the presents, I have a vampire to humiliate,” declared Xander, brandishing his video game somewhat erratically. Clearly, she hadn’t been the only one enjoying the eggnog a little too much.

“Actually,” she said, sitting forward and waving to draw everyone’s attention. “Giles and Willow and I still have something.” 

The rest of them looked at her in mild surprise: she’d mostly doubled up with Dawn on gifts this year, seeing as they were both semi broke, what with her professional slaying and Dawn’s being a college student and Dawn had already given out their presents. But this was something a little different - aside from everything else, she really hadn’t paid much for it, apart from the frame. Buffy walked to the tree and picked up the one remaining package, forgotten and half hidden under the lower branches. 

“Okay, so Willow and Giles helped me with this,” she said, holding it out to Spike. “But I want it noted that it was my idea, so it counts as from me.” 

His eyebrows shot up, startled. He turned the small, square parcel over in his hands, an excited smile he couldn’t quite suppress tugging at his lips. 

“What’s this then?” he asked, bemused but certainly not displeased.

“Just open it,” she said, knotting her fingers together unconsciously. She hadn’t realised how nervous she was until he held the present she’d agonised over for weeks in those long, elegant hands of his and oh God, now was so not the time for her hands-of-Spike fixation. She watched his face as he tore it open, saw confusion and an odd flicker of hope as he saw the back of the frame and then shock as he turned it over and saw the photograph. For a frozen moment as he stared at it, his eyes wide, lips slightly parted, then surged to his feet, leaving the photo to clatter noisily to the floor as he strode wordlessly to the door, wrenched it open and slammed it behind him. Andrew’s decorations rattled on the walls and Buffy was left pinned under five sets of confused eyes, clutching her stomach as though she’d been winded. 

Xander leaned forward to scoop up the picture and his brow wrinkled as he peered at it, trying to puzzle out the monstrous insult the blurry, sepia photograph of an elderly lady with kind eyes apparently concealed.

“Buffy, what is this?” he asked and Buffy got slowly to her feet, feeling like she was wading through cold water. 

“A mistake,” she murmured and held her hand out for the frame.

***

He was right outside the door: she hadn’t been expecting that. Buffy had been expecting to find him getting drunk in one of those dive bars she was forever dragging him out of or picking a fight with some vamps in a graveyard somewhere, all belligerence and attitude and Spike, not leaning against the wall in the corridor, head bowed and arms wrapped around himself. He glanced up briefly as she stepped out and she could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes. 

“Spike?” Her fingers suddenly felt slippery sweaty on the picture frame. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself and didn’t look up. She had no idea what to say. 

“I’m sor-” she began at last but he cut her off with a frantic shake of his head. They stood for another minute of awkward, thrumming silence, a low hum of concerned chatter drifting out from the apartment. Spike wiped his eyes with savage slashes of his hands. 

“Where did you even get that?” he choked out at last and Buffy’s stomach began to boil. She’d been nervous about telling him this part long even before he’d had the worst possible reaction to her little surprise - she’d had a whole spiel prepared and everything - but now she felt like throwing up. She had a feeling her little speech was only going to make things worse. 

“A - after you told me your last name,” she began haltingly. “I asked Giles to look and he researched and his contacts in London, they -”

His jaw was ticking, the jumping muscle at odds with the terrible stillness of the rest of his body. Buffy faltered. 

“I thought you might like - that you might want - your mother, you might want to remember - ”

“I killed her,” he spat. He finally raised his head to look at her, some awful combination of anger, grief and regret scorched into the hard lines of his face. “You knew that, you had to know that, right?”

He was crowding her, trying to get into her space and intimidate her in a way he hadn’t for a long time but Buffy just stood, the knots of regret in her stomach burned away by the kind of righteous anger it seemed only Spike could induce. Alright, yeah, she shouldn’t have gone digging around in his past without his permission, and yeah, she definitely shouldn’t have involved Willow and Giles in said digging, but she’d been trying to do something nice, and if he’d just shut his stupid vampire mouth for two seconds, she’d explain. 

“Honestly?” she said, invading his space right back. “I didn’t. How could I? You never freaking tell me anything about yourself! You talk and talk, but you never tell me anything _real_ anymore, you’re all ‘we’re just friends, Buffy’ and ‘you can talk to me, Buffy’ but you’ve shut yourself from me, so frigging hard that sometimes I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“You want the truth?!” 

They were nearly nose to nose now and Buffy could feel the energy crackling between them, the old surge of power that usually precipitated epic, violent, house wrecking sex. 

“Yeah, I’d like that, for once!”

“Fine, here’s the bloody truth!” 

Spike snatched the photo from her hands, practically shoving it into her face. “When I was human, my mother was all I had. I was devoted to her and she was devoted to me. Or so I thought.”

His tone was bitterly, bitterly self-mocking and Buffy finally realised that it wasn’t her he was angry with. He stepped away from her and began to pace the narrow span of the hallway like a caged animal.

“But she was sick. Consumption we called it back then. Tuberculosis now. Same fuckin’ difference. Dyin’ is dyin’.”

Spike paused and looked at her, his lip curling in a sneer. 

“Told you once what it was like for me, being turned. Thought I’d been given a gift, not a curse. Thought I could pass it on. Free me mum like Dru freed me. So I turned her, my poor, ol’ mother and when she rose, she was free alright. Free of all those pesky things that kept her shackled in life, love an’ duty an’ me. Told me how I disgusted her, bored her, always pesterin’ her an’ clingin’ to her, wanting to - she said I wanted to -”

His voice failing, he swallowed convulsively, and looked at the photo in his hands, his finger moving to trace the outline of his mother’s face. Buffy resisted the urge to reach out to him but she moved a little closer, reminding him of her presence, that he was not alone. 

“Awful things, she accused me of,” he went on, speaking as much to the picture as to Buffy. “Even as a vamp, too awful to think about. Too awful to hear. So I staked her. Killed her an’ then killed her again.” 

He met her eyes again, his own brimming with tears. “So go on, Slayer. Tell me why I should wanna remember.” 

Buffy crossed her arms and raised her chin, refusing to let him stare her down. 

“The tumour that killed my mom made her say some awful things too, you know.” 

Spike blinked at her. Clearly, that wasn’t the response he’d been expecting.

“It pressed on her brain, made her confused. We’d just be sitting together, talking and suddenly she’d tell me that I was fat or that I was an accident or she hated me - but it wasn’t her. She didn’t mean those things. It was just the tumour. Just like it wasn’t your mom talking then. It was the demon.”

“Demon doesn’t change who you are,” Spike said thickly. “Brings out your darkness, yeah, but nothing that wasn’t already there. I should fuckin’ know.” 

Buffy just stepped closer still, raising her hand slowly. He flinched back but she didn’t touch him, reaching out instead to grip the photo frame, lifting until it was right in front of Spike’s face and he had no choice but to look at it. 

“You said it yourself,” she said. “The demon, it erased all those things that made her her. The things that made her love you. And she did love you.”

“I know she did, but that don’ change the fact that deep down she resented me, she -” Spike broke off, the fight ebbing out of him. “I was a disappointment, Buffy.”

“No you weren’t,” she insisted. “You can’t have been. You’re special, Spike.”

“I’m no-” 

“You’ve always been special.” Buffy raised her voice and just talked over him. “One of the first things any fledge does is after it rises is hunt down and destroy all the people it was ever close to, but you, you tried to save your mother. I mean, yeah, it was still pretty twisted and not really the right thing to do but Spike, you shouldn’t have been able to try at all.”

She shifted her hand from the photo to his face and this time he didn’t flinch away. 

“Before you ever had a soul or a chip, before you ever met me - there was something so powerful in you that even death and demons couldn’t conquer it. And you’re telling me your mother didn’t see that?”

Spike started to shake under her touch. 

“Bullshit. Moms see everything. And no one who saw that could ever be disappointed in you.” 

She stared into the shivering, aching blue of his eyes until he pressed them shut, tears overflowing and spilling down his cheeks. He reached for her desperately and Buffy stepped forward without hesitation, letting him wrap his arms around her and crush her against him. She clung back, squeezing her hardest and knowing she couldn’t break him, feeling the corner of the frame digging into her back and not caring at all. 

“Buffy, I don’t deserve a friend like you,” he said, his voice muffled by her hair and she squeezed even harder.

“Bullshit,” she said again, the reserves of her eloquence apparently finally exhausted and he let out a little, broken laugh. She loosened her hold reluctantly and gently disengaged. It was way too nice being in his arms and that clinch had already lasted a good ten seconds longer than was strictly platonic. Spike didn’t protest, stepping away from her and wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” he said, smiling awkwardly. 

“Nah,” said Buffy. “I mean, it doesn’t really count as Christmas unless at least one vampire cries on me.” 

He let out a noise midway between a laugh and a hiccup. 

“You let other vampires cry on you? And here I was, thinkin’ I was special.” 

His voice was still too cracked and snuffly to really sound like his bantering best and the comment brought up uncomfortable shades of Angel, but ten minutes ago, Buffy hadn’t been sure he’d ever talk to her again, so she’d take it. 

“Honestly, I’m beginning to think I’m like vampire Kleenex or something,” she responded, which yeah, definitely not her best either and it was a good thing Spike was off his game because normally there was no way in hell he would ever have let such an obvious masturbation joke slide but now he just gave her a damp smile and reached out to wipe something wet off her face.

“Dripped on you,” he mumbled. “Sorry.” 

“So, uh, now that we’ve done the big emotional catharsis thing, you wanna hear my justification for totally invading your privacy?” she said, trying to keep the light, quippy tone going. 

Spike slid down to sit with his back to the wall and patted the floor beside him. “Tell me your justification for totally invading my privacy.” 

Buffy sat beside him, although not too close because they’d officially used up their touching quota for the day, and launched into the spiel she’d originally planned.

“Remember the day we went shopping for glasses and took all those photos?”

“How could I forget?”

 _Duh, Summers, of course he remembered, he bought you the dress._ The lovely dress which was now getting up close and personal with the grubby hall floor. Buffy shrugged it off. The things we do for love, she thought, then corrected herself hastily. Platonic love. Very, very platonic. 

“Um, so I said I deleted those photos of you, right?” 

Spike cocked an eyebrow at her. 

“Uh, well, I wasn’t lying, I mean, not _lying_ lying, I did delete the photos off the phone, just … not off my cloud storage thingie.” 

She squirmed uncomfortably, wondering for the thousandth time why she hadn’t just bought him some tacky punk jewellery or something that wouldn’t have required so many emotional gymnastics but Spike just laughed softly and pulled his phone out of his pocket. A couple of taps and swipes brought him to her contact profile page, complete with contact profile picture, a photo of her in clunky hipster-nerd glasses, caught mid giggle.

“You bastard!” she exclaimed. “You cheated!”

“Hey, you started it!” he replied indignantly. “‘Sides, I, ah, I di’n’ have any photos of you.” 

Her heart leapt and she promptly squished the jubilant, fluttery feeling. He’d done the exact same thing as she had, for the exact same reasons. _He cares, he cares, he cares._

“Right! I didn’t have any of you either and I was gonna delete them, honest, but then I kind of started thinking about after Sunnydale and the whole thing with your fiery death” - _wow, way to be tactful_ \- “and how I didn’t have anything to, um, to remember you by.” 

She paused, mortified to discover that she was actually choking up. She hadn’t thought it would be so hard to say: she was supposed to be over the fact that he died and came back and didn’t freaking bother to call and oh, look at that, not over it at all. Not having the energy for any more drama, she just sucked it up and kept going. 

“And that was, like, really rough. And I kind of started thinking about all the people you must have left behind and how hard it must be to have nothing of theirs at all and I just, I just wanted to give you a little something back. And I’m sorry I dragged Will and Giles into this but you know I totally suck at the researching thing, and then the only photo we could find was in this really faded newspaper clipping and kind of small, so I needed Will to work her computer magic on it and her, like, actual magic to get something worth framing, so I did have good reasons, I swear.”

She paused for breath and glanced over to see Spike giving her a soft, warm look that was definitely more than friendly. 

“Thank you, Buffy,” he said, every word weighted with sincerity. “This means … more than you know.” 

He reached out and gripped her shoulder - didn’t he know about the touching quota?! - and let out a heavy sigh. 

“My turn to apologise, I think,” he said after a moment, mercifully moving his hand away. Spike touches were starting to do funny things to her stomach. “I’m a fucking berk. I’m so sorry for ruining your lil Scooby Christmas party and I’m even sorrier for losing my temper like that.”  
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was completely unacceptable and you would have had every right to punch my lights out. Although I ‘preciate that you didn’t. You’re … what you did for me here, I don’t deserve it.”

This was fast straying into emotion territory again and Buffy had thus far avoided crying, something she was kinda keen to continue, so all in all, she was pretty grateful when the door jerked open beside them. Xander stepped out and then started in surprise when he saw them on the floor. 

“Oh, hey guys,” he said, with slightly forced cheer. “I just came out to check that you guys hadn’t, you know, uh …”

“Killed each other?” supplied Spike. 

“Right.”

“No one’s dead,” said Buffy reassuringly, then shot Spike a side long glance. “Well, deader.” 

Spike chuckled. “We’re alright, mate. Ta for checkin’ though.” 

Xander let out a very obvious sigh of relief then tried to cover. “Okay, great, that’s great. So are you coming back in now, cuz Andrew needs help with the dinner and he’s getting kinda shrill.” 

Buffy and Spike shared a glance and she felt as though something had been decided although she wasn’t sure what. Spike hauled himself to his feet and she followed suit, carefully dusting off her dress. 

“You go on ahead, Slayer, I’m jus’ gonna put this somewhere safe,” he said waving the photo. “Don’ want it to get damaged after you put in all that effort.” The fact that he needed a few minutes to compose himself before he could rejoin the crowd went unsaid, but Buffy patted his arm to show that she understood and went back inside. 

* * *

Having propped the photo of his mother on his nightstand, Spike headed straight out to the fire escape, hoping that some fresh air and a smoke would clear his head. Sticking carefully to the shadows and thanking his lucky stars that the fire escape was north facing, he lit up and drew a soothing cloud of tar and nicotine into his lungs. He blew out the smoke, watched it curl farther out into the daylight than he dared stray and tried very hard not to shake. 

He was fully aware of what prize pillock he’d been. An absolute buggering moron. No one could blame him really for getting a bit of a shock at seeing his mum’s phiz after all these years, ‘specially given the circumstances in which he’d last seen it, but yelling at Buffy and dumping the entire sorry story on her, that went a good bit beyond the pale. As did storming out of their cosy little get together like a stroppy teenager.

“I’m a wanker,” he murmured, taking another drag and letting it trickle out his nostrils. Being honest with himself though, this whole day had been very, very strange. Under different circumstances, like maybe if it’d just been the two of them when she gave him the photo, he might have reacted differently but as it was, he’d been wound up and on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

It had all gone too well, that was the issue. Never say he didn’t know how to self sabotage. They’d discussed their bloody Christmas plans and no one had ever said whether he was included or not, leaving him unsure as to whether they were deliberately not inviting him or if they had just taken it as read that he’d be coming. He’d bought presents just on the off chance, gone bloody overboard with them out of a pathetic need to compensate and as the day drew closer and no one had said that he should not come, he’d squashed William the wanker and his social anxiety down deep where he belonged and put his game face on. Metaphorically speaking, of course. And it had all gone sodding swimmingly. It fucking unnerved him. He kept expecting the cold shoulders, the casual disregard or blatant (admittedly richly deserved) hostility they’d shown him over the years, because even if they’d accepted him for the last few months, let him fight with them in their battles and acted like his friends, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe they’d let him all the way in. 

But they had. 

Spike puffed on his fag with increasing agitation, practically chewing on it. He’d been pretty much sucker punched by the sense of belonging, the sense of welcome he’d longed for throughout his whole, miserable existence and he couldn’t help but wait for someone to yank the rug out from under his feet. When he’d opened that present from Buffy, with the sudden, guilty hope that it was a picture of her, a picture he could legitimately own without feeling like a stalker (but of course Buffy would never be so egotistical as to realise he’d want that), the sight of that face he’d thought he’d never see again had been the death blow for his already over strained nerves. And then he’d thrown a fucking temper tantrum. 

Cringing with embarrassment at the memory, Spike dropped the cigarette butt into the beer bottle he’d left out here as a makeshift ashtray and fumbled for another smoke. He’d hardly lit up when the door behind him opened, nearly knocking him out into the sunlight. He flattened himself against the wall with an undignified yelp of surprise and turned to glare at the culprit, then did a double take when he saw Giles. He’d half expected Buffy or one of the others to come fetch him if he dawdled too long over his smoke break, but he’d expected Xander or maybe Dawn. Certainly not Giles. 

“Dinner time already then?” Spike asked. 

Giles shook his head. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked. It was still unbelievably weird hearing Rupert’s accent and inflection coming out in this squeaky child’s voice, on the brink of breaking. 

“Er, right, yeah, go ahead,” said Spike, bemused then irritated as he realised he’d have to put his fag out. It was hardly smoked so he tucked it behind his ear rather than waste it. 

Giles stepped out and closed the door behind him, then stood with his arms folded, staring moodily at the apartment block across the street. The silence was tense and awkward and Spike cast around desperately for something to say. 

“You liked the Dad’s Army then?” he said at last. 

“What? Oh yes.” Giles’ face lightened slightly. “When I was growing up, I mean the first time, I never had the chance to watch it. I always felt as though I’d missed out on a rather essential experience.” 

“Really?” Spike did some mental totting up. “Would’ve thought you’d be the right age.” 

“Oh I was,” said Giles with a thin, rueful smile. “But at the time it was broadcast, at first I was deeply immersed in my Watcher’s training and BBC sitcoms were considered to be pointless frivolities and then I was far too taken with my punk rebellion to watch anything half so mainstream.” He sighed. “And after that I … never got around to it.” 

“Well, now’s your chance, mate,” said Spike, trying to sound upbeat. He was never sure how to deal with Giles’ strange blend of child and adult without sounding patronising or dismissive. “Do over type of thing.”

“Yes,” murmured Giles. “I seem to be getting rather a lot of second chances. And I’d rather not waste this one.” He looked directly at Spike, almost challengingly. “Spike, I believe I owe you an apology.”

Well, there seems to be a lot of that going ‘round, Spike didn’t say. He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and, frustrated in his desire to smoke, began to shred it absentmindedly. 

“Look, I already cleared this up with Buffy,” he said instead. “‘M sorry for overreacting about the photo, I jus’ got a bit of a shock, ’s all. Not having seen me mum’s face in a while. ’S’nothin’ to fret about. Ego te absolvo an’ all that.” 

Giles raised an eyebrow. “That is not why I’m apologising.”

“Oh?” Spike paused in his fidgeting, crumbs of tobacco drifting from his suddenly stilled fingers as he racked his brain for other reasons Giles might have to be sorry. The only one he could think of made no sense. 

“This about your murder conspiracy with Nikki Wood’s boy?” he asked finally when he was unable to come up with anything else. 

Giles nodded gravely. “I have been reflecting of late, upon mistakes I made in the past, mistakes I wish to avoid if I am to make the most of this second chance. And the attempted murder of an ally, even if you were not a friend at that point - it is something I regret. And I am deeply sorry.”

Spike’s fingers jerked in surprise and the cigarette tore in two. Apparently it was Deal with Uncomfortable Baggage Day and nobody had bloody warned him. He dug a knuckle into his temple, trying to relieve the stress headache he could feel building there. 

“Look, let’s just put that behind us, yeah?” he said, too drained to be anything but conciliatory. “Spirit of Christmas, seasonal goodwill, all that tosh.” Giles looked anything but satisfied and Spike swallowed a groan. “Oh for fuck’s - I know why you did, right? Can’t say ‘m exactly happy about it, but you were just lookin’ out for Buffy and God knows, I’d given you all reason enough to think I was a threat to her. Jus' ... promise not to sic any other second gen demon hunters thirstin’ for revenge on me and we’re square.” 

“Were that the true reason for my actions, I would feel no guilt,” said Giles and looked at his shoes. “But it was not.” 

“Huh?”

“I was jealous,” Giles told his shoes and the words took a minute to filter through Spike’s stress addled brain. 

“Y’wot now?” he said brilliantly. 

“I was jealous, I felt as though I was being replaced, that Buffy didn’t need me anymore.” Giles began to fiddle with his glasses. “I believe it was not uncommon for fathers to feel that way about the men in their daughters’ lives.” 

“Eh?” Spike was starting feel slightly lobotomised. _Now I guess I'll have to tell ‘em, that I got no cerebellum,_ his brain recited inanely. 

“Had I been honest with myself then, admitted the true reasons for my desire to, ah, dispose of you, I believe I could have saved a great deal of strife between myself and Buffy. I have no intention of letting that happen again.”

Spike just nodded dumbly. Giles had been jealous? Of him? It was too bloody insane to contemplate.

Giles pushed his glasses up his nose and looked Spike straight in the eye. “I want you to know I will not be interfering with your relationship with Buffy again. If you make her happy, then it would be remiss of me to attempt to sabotage that.”

“Wha - relationship - happy? Hang about, Giles, that’s not what this is.”

“It’s not?”

“No!” The headache was gradually expanding from behind his left eye. “For the thousandth soddin’ time: Buffy an’ me are just friends. That’s all there is to it.” 

“Really? Those Christmas gifts you two exchanged - you would describe them as, ‘friendly’?”

“Yes, bloody hell! What’s the third degree in aid of?”

Giles scrutinised him for a far longer time than was really comfortable. “Nothing,” he said at last. “I was mistaken, I believe.” He sounded like he believed anything but. “I do think, however, that you have Buffy’s best interests at heart,” he continued. “And that you make her happy. Regardless of your romantic status at present, I shall not interfere with that in any way.” 

There was a long silence and Spike stuffed his hands into pockets, totally at a loss for words. 

“Thanks,” he said eventually, because something seemed to be expected of him. 

Giles nodded gravely. “You are most welcome.”

“But nothing’s happening between me and Buffy.”

“Of course not.” 

“Giles! I mean it!”

“So do I.” 

He gave Spike a bland smile, replete with insincere innocence and Spike snorted. Distantly he heard Andrew yelling about the table being set and demanding to know where everyone was. Bloody hell, put the boy in charge of the kitchen for a day and he turns into a right tyrant. 

“Think I hear ‘em calling inside,” he said, jerking his head in the general direction of the commotion. 

“Right then.” Giles opened the door and stepped aside. “After you.”

Feeling increasingly as though he’d entered an alternate dimension (which, around this lot was not of the question. He made a mental note to make sure no one had made any wishes around strangers of late), Spike stepped back into the hall and followed the tantalising smell of food. 

* * *

The table was very nearly groaning under the weight of the massive turkey Andrew had cooked, surrounded by mounds of stuffing, an impressive variety of sauces and enormous dishes of vegetables, roasted until every last nutrient had surrendered to its fatty, crispy demise. Spike approved. 

Everyone else was already seated when he came in and no one avoided his gaze or sniggered or made any other possible reference to the fact that he’d made a completely sodding fool of himself earlier. Buffy smiled warmly at him as he moved to take the chair opposite her and he smiled back, trying to keep that gormless, lovey dovey expression she always drew out of him off his face, then jumped as Andrew leaned over his shoulder to plunk a glass down in front of him.

“Here we go, blood for Spike, beer for Xander, Coke for Dawn-” 

Andrew sang out out the list as he went and then paused when noticed Spike staring dumbly at his glass. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it too cold? Dawn said 98.6º, but I didn’t have a thermometer so-

“No, no, it’s fine,” blurted Spike hastily, taking a swig and promptly scalding his tongue. It was significantly higher than body temperature but blood was blood and this was oxen, a much richer flavour than pig, but far more expensive which was why he rarely bought it. Spike wiped his mouth and paused, waiting for an exclamation of disgust or a revolted roll of the eyes that never came. They all just carried on chatting and giggling and piling food onto their plates. 

“Spike?” said Dawn and he braced himself for it. “Don’t you want any turkey?”

“Turkey?” he repeated stupidly and then looked at the platter of freshly carved meat she was offering him. “Oh, right. Turkey. I mean, yeah, thanks.”

“Guys?” 

They all turned to look at Andrew at the head where he stood at the head of the table, fiddling nervously with his glass. It occurred to Spike that he was not the only one who was insecure about his place in the group. 

“Before we start,” the boy said hesitantly. “I’d like to propose a toast.” He raised his glass a little theatrically. “To family.”

“Family,” they all echoed, Spike a bewildered beat behind the rest. Buffy raised her glass to him expectantly and her beauty stunned him for a second, as it occasionally still did at odd moments. 

“Well, cheers,” he said and clinked his glass against hers. 

* * *

“Don’t panic! Don’t panic!!” squawked the funny, little English guy, flapping his arms like he was trying to take flight and Spike and Giles dissolved into helpless laughter for about the fifth time in as many minutes. Sitting between them, Buffy couldn’t help letting out a giggle of her own. They were on their third or fourth episode of the sitcom Spike had given Giles and even though a good chunk of the humour kinda escaped her - she had a feeling it was a British thing - watching them break down in hysterics was entertainment enough in itself. Giles doubled over beside her, tears of laughter in his eyes, and she felt a sudden urge to hug Spike again. She hadn’t seen Giles this light hearted, this carefree, in pretty much ever. 

There seemed to be a lot of that going around. Andrew and Xander were playing that new game, whooping and high-fiving whenever one of them pulled off something particularly violent and Willow and Dawn were sitting on the floor in front of the couch, alternating between watching the TV show and playing scrabble. Buffy snuggled deeper into the cushions, feeling truly, deeply happy.

Whoops. 

She glanced around automatically for the disaster that inevitably followed any and all uses of the ‘h’ word, but nope. No apocalypses, no demons, no vampires - well, none except Spike and he was immersed in the onscreen silliness and doing this kind of high pitched, girly laugh thing that was the opposite of threatening to her happiness. Buffy threw caution into the wind and rested her head on his shoulder, touching quota be damned. She felt Spike jump a little and then very hesitantly reach up to pet her hair, a brief there and gone again touch. She nestled against him and closed her eyes, refusing to consider the lines she might be crossing. It was Christmas, after all. Maybe, when he left, she’d kiss him under the mistletoe.


	2. Epilogue: Under the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy gives Spike that kiss under the mistletoe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally felt this story was complete the way it was, but then milly-summers on Tumblr prompted me to write a Spuffy Christmas post s7. I couldn't really think of a whole new Christmas story that didn't feel like I was repeating what I'd already done here, so instead I wrote this little coda. Written for my 1k promptathon.

It was about 3am when they all finally started moving and stirring themselves to go home or to bed, respectively, Andrew being the first as he had the longest way to go. He hugged them all slightly emotionally, which really, all things being equal, was not as bad as it could have been. Spike patted his skinny, little back and inwardly remarked that at least Andrew would probably always be shorter than him. Giles was the next to bow out, far more formally, but he did accept the girls’ kisses with a put upon air which struck Spike as entirely put on. In contrast, his irritation at Xander ruffling his hair seemed very real. He didn’t do anything half so embarrassing as initiating contact with Spike, but he did give him a rather significant nod on his way out, which Spike returned just as gravely. That seemed to be his own cue to shove off, so having given Willow a brief, one armed hug, he scooped up his pile of presents and made to go.

He bumped into Xander at the door, who was hanging around under the mistletoe, trying to look casual and failing to keep his eyes from straying to Dawn. Spike sighed, realising that he should probably have kept a better eye on how much Xander had been drinking. Dawn had noticed and he could see the wavering uncertainty in her eyes, the desire to stay fighting with the urge to bolt, so very like her sister. Not having any better ideas on how to break the awkward tension, he grabbed Xander by the back of the head and hauled him down for a smacking kiss on the forehead. Xander yelped in surprise at first and then disgust, stumbling away from him, swiping at his face with his sleeve and protesting loudly. The moment burst like a bubble and Dawn shot him a glance loaded with fervent gratitude.

“Well, night guys,” she exclaimed, her brightness a little forced, and hugged them both swiftly about the middle, then vanished into her room before anyone could protest. That just left Buffy, looking ruefully after Dawn. Spike was sorry to see her face lose some of that rare lightness it had worn all night, clouding over with weighty memories instead. He wondered if she was recalling her own tendency to favour flight over fight when it came to her emotions and if the regret he saw was for herself or for Dawn or both. When she turned back to them though, he saw nothing but an affection so warm, it stunned him.

“Thanks for coming,” she said softly. How lovely she looked, overfull and a little sleepy. Spike sympathised with Xander’s idiotic loitering under the mistletoe: even this new, mature version of himself couldn’t repress the longing for a tiny share in her happiness, even if it was only the barest touch of her lips. He struggled to find his voice.

“Thanks for having me.” Oh wonderful. May I leave you my card, Miss Summers? Will you be at the ball next week? Could I trouble you, if you’re not previously engaged, for the first two dances? He wanted desperately to find something real to say, something beyond all the social platitudes, as meaningless now as they had been back when he’d been alive.

“This has been–” the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had. No one has ever made me feel as accepted, as human, as you do. My mother would have liked you. All these things trembled on his tongue, only to be swallowed. Xander was standing right beside him, and the admissions he longed to make were far too private to share with other people around. In fact, they were probably too intimate to ever share at all. “–great. This has been great,” he finished, cursing himself but Buffy just smiled.

“Yeah, it has, hasn’t it?”

She sounded practically beatific. The same clear joy in her voice shone in her eyes as she caught him by the collar of his shirt and tugged him down, gently but implacably. She didn’t chastely brush her lips over his skin, but rather pressed them to the corner of his mouth, far enough off target to technically be his cheek but still close enough for him to feel the astonishing heat of her lips on his.

“Happy Christmas,” she said. He realised he was clutching her elbow, seconds away from throwing caution into the winds and kissing her back the way he wanted to, before he rained himself in.

“Happy Christmas,” he stuttered in response, and she gave him a little pat on the chest, close to his heart before turning to wish Xander the same, giving him a mistletoe kiss that struck Spike as being a lot less suggestive than the one she’d given him.

“Night Buff,” said Xander, still looking a little glum. Spike grabbed his arm and steered him out into the hall.

“Night Buffy,” he echoed, as she closed the door after them with a wave and a tired, radiant smile. He followed Xander down the hall to their apartment, pressing his fingers to the spot where Buffy had kissed him like a love struck teenager and made a mental note to congratulate Andrew on the excellent job he’d done with the decorating.


End file.
